


In Between

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cousland Backstory, Crossroads, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Domestic, Dwarf Noble Origin, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Magic, Poetic, Slice of Life, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:37:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Following the events of Witch Hunt, Morrigan hides in the place in between worlds with Kieran and his father - and, depending on the latter’s origin and temperament and secret desires, this pocket realm is transformed into something entirely different. For a Dalish elf, it appears as a dusky glen where ghostly halla graze; for a human noble, it is an idyllic country cottage that Howe’s soldiers will never threaten; and for an Aeducan enamoured with the surface, it is a dreamy likeness of the entirety of Thedas.





	In Between

A dive, head-first, into the blinding blue glow of the Eluvian, the glass rippling at their touch, soft and cool and pliable like a cut of finest silk.

A brief walk through the Crossroads, hands hovering in an uncertain gesturing motion, heads turning from side to side as they scan the misty grey expanse for a second window of blue among the tilted darkened mirrors and the ancient constructs, hazy amid the lingering ripples of old magics, sculpted into trees with perfectly round, lace-like crowns.

Then, another dive, another thrumming, rustling shift of silk - and they find themselves… In between. In a secluded pocket of what does not feel quite like the Fade, but can be described as… Fade-like, for all intents and purposes. Especially if one is too busy for going into a more detailed explanation of its nature.

Too busy running, too busy scrambling to hide away from an unseen pursuer. From a presence that always haunts them: as a throb of headache at the back of the skull, a fleeting blur in the farthest corner of peripheral vision, a dragon-shaped shadow that may, at any moment, reshape into flesh - will reshape into flesh - even as the carcass of the actual dragon rots in the now Blighted heart of the Korcari Wilds, with the soggy marshland moss painting the old bones a muddy green, and large, sleekly moist, pallid lilies growing out of its sockets.

But, inevitable as the dragon’s return might be, and wary as they are of the onslaught of any other encroaching forces that might wish to chase after the witch and her lover and their child, who is not quite a child, and already gets dreams of those mossy bones in the tainted bog, calling out to him with a gentle song, sweet as the decay of death, with words that he would not have been able to repeat even if he was old enough to speak - none of those hunters can reach them here. In between.

This place is hidden well; perfect for a reprieve after being on the run. It is quiet, and it is serene, and it is undisturbed by the clamour of strife of the outside world - worlds, perhaps. And those are the only things about it that remain constant. The in between itself - the landscape of this tiny realm - is always different. Depending on the story; depending on who travelled across Ferelden with Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds, and managed to earn her trust, and love, and the unexpected, first unnerving but ultimately welcome softness.

 

***

 

If Morrigan’s companion is an elf named Relas Mahariel, loyal warrior and hunter of a clan that has long since moved on without him, taciturn and distant around all but those whom he cares about, with piercing reflective eyes burning bright on his bronzed face like a pair of fireflies, Ghilan'nain’s curling vallaslin marking his brow, and springy black hair fashioned into dreadlocks and then tied into a bun at the back of his head - then the in between looks like a forest glen, always plunged into lilac-tinted dusk.

They live in an aravel that seems to begin moving the moment they climb in, rocking softly as a ship, drifting off at a drowsy, blissful rhythm, sailing endlessly through the tender twilight, even though in actuality, it does not move an inch. Kieran sleeps so soundly in here, the dragon dreams ebbing away - and when he wakes, his father sweeps him into his arms and carries him outside, where a herd of halla has already gathered to greet them.

Relas suspects that they are not quite real, these slender-legged beasts with coats that shimmer like silver in the muted light - but they give very real milk, and his da'len laughs a very real, gurgling laugh when they let him grab their antler, and there is a very real sensation of calm veiling him as he strokes the shimmering, ghostly fur and murmurs the tales of his People into a tiny baby ear that is, against all odds, visibly pointy. Morrigan listens to him in astonishment, for not all that he says matches what she read in her books and scrolls - but says nothing, as the moment she as much as thinks about correcting him, the shadows around the glen deepen, and the ground shifts with a warning rumble that only she can hear. So she has no choice but to learn, just as Kieran is learning.

Sometimes, in the middle of playing with the da'len in the lavender grass or milking a statue-still, uncannily tame halla, Relas looks up with a mute question at the blue spot on the horizon. The slit of the Eluvian that they came from; a gateway back to the Crossroads, which will connect him to any other Eluvian, including the one that… But he never dares to let the thought finish itself, and, with a stubborn jerk of his head, goes back to what he was doing.

On the other side, lies corruption and bitter reminders of loss that he is putting off facing again, because he had plenty of that during the Blight.

Here, on this side, he is safe. For the time being.

 

***

 

If Morrigan’s companion is a human named Gordon Cousland, the in between takes another form.

In this story, the man who accompanies the witch here is not the late Theirn Bryce’s younger son, no; that poor boy was cut down by Howe’s men before he could even raise a blade, a splatter of crimson painting his nightshirt like a morbid canvas, a loyal mabari sniffing and snarling at his limp form with an almost human angry denial.

Gordon Cousland is Bryce’s younger brother, the failure, the black sheep, the jester whom nobody ever found particularly funny. A man who, by his own conviction, survived by mistake, going from a wastrel who would meander aimlessly about Highever Keep and regale Fergus and poor dear Aedan with rude jokes and tall tales when he was drunk, to a hero, a saviour of the world, a man whom everyone expected to do the right thing. And that he managed most admirably, even with all his fussing over Alistair (whom he would often call Aedan in a moment of forgetfulness) and clinging on to the last tattered remnants of his clownish mask. Morrigan finds it calming, reassuring - knowing that whenever she looks back, she will find his boldly angular, lined face beaming up at her and Kieran, grey eyes transfixed with puppy-like adoration that he once made most amusing attempts to hide, assuming that she would only ever want him to warm her tent.

When he is with her, the in between moulds itself into the sturdy, carefully constructed stone walls of the very rustic little cottage that Morrigan would mockingly describe as she (perhaps just as amusingly as Gordon) insisted on denying the very notion of falling in love. The porch is submerged into dappled shade and the waves of honeysuckle scent; there is grass growing on the roof, swaying in a wind that is always subtle and warm, just as the sky overhead is always vivid blue with just enough curly wisps of clouds to keep the golden sun from turning blaring and white and merciless; the rooms are small and furnished scarcely, but with anything that one might need, and the pantry appears to magically restock itself after every delve for cooking supplies.

Except, unlike her derisive tales of domestic bliss, Morrigan is not the one who does the cooking. It is Gordon that handles all the chores, while she spends most of her time wandering among the heady flowers in the perpetually green, sun-kissed outdoors, Kieran dozing in a sling against her chest. It is Gordon that raises a ruckus with the brass pots and pans, all the skills he picked up from Wynne now proudly put to use, and fills the modest dwelling with a mouth-watering mixture of savoury scents of soup and roast - and afterwards, takes to scrubbing the used kitchenware with such ferocity that one might think he was polishing his armour before battle.

Following the cooking and the cleaning, comes the tinkering about the house - and it does not take Morrigan long to realize that, perfect as their little hideaway appears, something always seems to break down for Gordon to fix. A creaking step, a wobbly board on the porch, the railing of Kieran’s little cradle. This version of the in between keeps her Warden busy; and she understands why. Work wears him out, it takes his mind off the flames of Highever that still roar when he shuts his eyes, his brother and sister-in-law melting away behind a curtain of searing smoke, tremulous ams reaching out towards him. There is another way to beat down those flames - to travel the world, like he and Morrigan have always wanted, to be swept away in a whirlwind of new impressions, to experience the vibrance of Thedosian cultures, human and otherwise, without caring, above caring, that they might be derided and pushed away as outsiders, a scheming witch and a silly, sad clown who does not belong anywhere.

And that is what they intend to do, once all the wounds have healed and all the danger has passed. But right now, they are enjoying the boons of the enchanted house in between, where they are safe. For the time being.

 

***

 

And if Morrigan’s companion is a dwarf named Thraer Aeducan, a soft, shy, gentle prince, with his round face framed by golden curls and a bushy, elaborately braided beard, and with large blue eyes that take in the surface world with scarcely a blink, full of a profound wonderment that is all too familiar to Morrigan (once, was all but shattered with her golden mirror, and then returned, with a replica of the very same mirror, held out to her tentatively, almost fearfully, its handle clasped in a chubby dwarven fist) - then, the in between changes almost every day. Or, well, whatever stands for a day this side of the Crossroads. Thraer’s wanderlust, more fervent, more overpowering than Gordon’s, bends the age-old laws that distaste that dwarves should have no command over magic, and the hidden realm turns into an ever-renewing canvas; a myriad of backdrops for his, Morrigan’s, and Kieran’s dream-like journeys.

They can spend the day splashing about in the turquoise shallows on a deserted sandy beach - in Tevinter, judging by the architecture of a steep-walled tower that looks somberly on them from an overhanging cliff (and, unlike in the real word, never does spew out a throng of some magister’s retainers, ready to capture the intrusive southerners and brand them as slaves).

They fall asleep in the cove at the cliff’s base - and awaken in the centre of a patchwork-bright market square in Rivain, where the sellers have their faces blurred, and cannot be called or reached out to; but the explosion of spicy fragrance and rainbow colour and seagull screeches overhead is most convincing.

Exhausted by exploring the stalls, they sit down on a bench in the shade of a tilting, fruit-laden tree, and after Morrigan finishes feeding Kieran, she glances up and finds herself gazing upon a velvety evening sky, all speckled with the bobbing golden dots of floating lanterns that signify that a festival of some sort has begun in Antiva.

Morrigan and Thraer duck hand in hand from one winding lane to another, unafraid that Zevran’s former comrades might lurk behind a shadowy corner - but when they emerge, it is onto one of the soaring basalt pillars that are ceaselessly battered by the swelling tide of the Waking Sea. The spot where they are transported, however, miraculously dry and shielded from the wrath of the wild waters, and even has a tiny table laid out, ready for a picnic, which Morrigan and Thraer enjoy while gazing out into the sea - whereas Kieran fidgets restlessly in his father’s arms, the thundering roar of the waves speaking to something within his dragon soul that has not fully awakened yet.

Noticing the boy’s growing agitation, Thraer cradles him to his chest - and the flying sea froth freezes and turns green, hardening into the canopy of trees in the Brescilian Forest: a version of it where no sylvans threaten to come alive and clench their gnarly claws around the squishy beings of flesh.

And thus they travel in and on, exploring a world that reflects many regions of Thedas, familiar and yet unseen, but is devoid of other people apart from themselves, and of wild beasts, and of the last, rotting remnants of the Blight. A clean, safe, baby-proof world, where nothing will tear Kieran away from Morrigan, and no-one will mock Thraer - who gives pet names to bugs and writes poetry in not-so-secret - for being too soft, too airy-fairy, too unlike the brother that betrayed his trust. A world that is not real, and will not give shelter to them forever.

Soon, very soon, they will leave, and Thraer will go back to proving that behind his huggable exterior, lurks a formidable berserker that will rather tear himself apart than allow harm to come to his family. Soon - but not yet. Before they have the strength to face the blows of the real world, the dwarf and his beloved witch allow themselves to be lulled into bliss by a fantasy. Where they are safe. For the time being.


End file.
